INTO THIS SPACE

light at first penetrates uneasily in long pencil-thin strokes, unsettling
dust before moving on, ever upward, bouncing from glass to metal
in Pan-like
strides yet without any semblance of mischief or grace. Its touch
is warm,
it's true, yet it pretends not comfort or joy. Impossible to deduce
a will
moving invisible yet causing enlightenment. Against all odds, the
creator
walks into the path of light streaming through the crusted window
and interrupts
the silence with a song. The beams know it not, nor the nocturnal
roaches,
and the mirror is blind, the dust unforgiving.

Into this space

water drips mysteriously, avoiding the snare of a tin can
with its random
bursts. The roof was coated in all the likely places, yet the uneven
tap
of water persists, a benefit for an unknown tree in an impenetrable
forest.

Into this space

two lovers have escaped to spend an uninterrupted night together.
The calm
of the neighbourhood does not diminish their fear of discovery.
They nearly
trip upon a cot, over which he spreads his long black coat, then
sits to
remove his boots. She is cold under the cover, sitting and hugging
her knees,
and rocking, attempting to see through the dark. His whispers grow
more
urgent, yet she moves not, and is silent. He laughs into the silence,
to
which she replies with a whisper, then a kiss, and a touch.

Into this space

a group of squatters have begun moving furniture, a cooking
range, portable
heaters, boxes of clothing, canned pasta foods. Three men struggle
with
a washtub through the hallway. As one iron leg catches on a loose
floorboard,
they're forced to retreat and examine the remaining distance. Children
scream
and run up the stairs, followed by a small but loud scruffy white
dog. The
women hang sheets to divide the sleeping quarters. Two old men
sit at a
table, tapping black and red pieces on a checkerboard, arguing,
punctuating
their curses with spitting on the floor.

Into this space

Fellini and then Ferlinghetti lured a plump girl of nineteen
who has lured
three young boys who carry bottles of wine and baguettes. The youngest
drags
the others' schoolbooks behind him, tied together with a simple
belt. How
she dances and twirls, drinks and gesticulates with the bread,
now like
a proud soldier with his gun, now a focused batter with his powerful
bat.
How the boys cheer and stamp their feet. Popping a cork, she lifts
the bottle
high, lifts her skirts, and smashes an empty against the brick
wall. The
youngest begins to cry at that, while the other two hold him back
from running
out. Loud whispers in his ear do still him, and he raises a new
bottle high
and thrusts it out to her.

Into this space

a burly seascape painter drops his easel near a wide window.
Sneezing twice,
he struggles with the latch, and succeeds to open the window but
not without
a big bang which threatens to smash the frail panes. Examining
the room
from different angles, he retreats, reappearing with two black
suitcases,
which he drags beside the easel, emptying the contents into one
pile. A
large blue cloth is last to emerge, which he spreads out on the
floor with
great care. Now naked, he lies on his back, hands clasped on his
chest,
eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Into this space

a general will order his men to fire. Positions had been taken
only hours
before, no warning will be given, no inquiry made as to the occupants'
identities
or choices (whether, indeed there were occupants, and, if so, were
they
the cause of the maneuver). The instructions were simple, continue
firing
until the building is brought down to the ground. The general is
not one
to question his orders; he has read the handwritten note many times
over.
There is no reason given, only an address, underlined with three
heavy strokes
of the pen, a brief statement of purpose, and an indecipherable
signature
the general took for the Secretary of the Interior. He was not
going to
take any chances either; a tank was rolled within thirty feet,
two truckloads
of recent recruits were dispersed in small groups to circle the
building.
First, the lines of communication to the building are severed.
Next, traffic
is rerouted, and, as the last voices of soldiers become less audible,
there
remains only the wait until the word is given.

Into this space

the word is given by the poet with the mustache headache,
fighting off impossible
demands on his flesh, and his bloodtype. To be known for one who "caught
a glimpse of the eternal, despite clearly posted signs to the contrary"
he launches one final desperate metaphor and disappears.

Into this space

you enter alone, bearing your heart, mind and body. The poem
is illuminated
upon the wall of your mind, it reminds you of dream in which you
were afraid
and you knelt before your saviour and said I am so afraid please
help and
the reply was laughter and shame, you shielded your eyes with your
hands
and they were wet and they were bloody and you screamed and awoke
in the
bed of a stranger; the poem strips you bare while you're listening,
the
poem enters your body as an orgasm.

Into this space
seven poets retreat in the heat of writing. In time, they find
the perfect
combination of form and image ­ the father hitching white clouds
to
white horses. Immediately, they are rewarded with the appearance
of a great
ark, literally floating above the times, a vehicle transformed
into a kind
of post-modern muse: dispensing favours but coin operated.